


Up the Wolves

by babyrubysoho



Series: Sea Wolf [2]
Category: Big Bang (Band), GTOP (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - Not K-Pop Idols, Arguing, Brotherly Love, Dysfunctional Family, Historical References, Love/Hate, M/M, Romance, Sailing, Sassy Kwon Jiyong | G-Dragon, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25668109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyrubysoho/pseuds/babyrubysoho
Summary: Choi the Wolf has been laying up after his near-death experience, waiting impatiently to take back control - over his ship, at least. At last Jiyong decides it's been long enough, and as it turns out the wait was worth it.(Sequel toTwo Ships Passing.)
Relationships: Choi Seunghyun | T.O.P./Kwon Jiyong | G-Dragon
Series: Sea Wolf [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1861156
Comments: 18
Kudos: 27





	Up the Wolves

**Author's Note:**

> This is a post-final-chapter fluff/smut oneshot (well, as fluffy as the Wolf and Viper get) that didn't really fit into the main fic stylistically.  
> Seunghyun's POV. Enjoy! :)

I’m gonna get myself in fighting trim  
Scope out every angle of unfair advantage  
I’m gonna bribe the officials, I’m gonna kill all the judges  
It’s gonna take you people years to recover from all of the damage!  
  
Our mother has been absent  
Ever since we founded Rome  
But there’s gonna be a party when the Wolf comes home

( _Up the Wolves_ , The Mountain Goats, 2005)

Jiyong moves so quietly he might be a part of my ship: the creak of ropes, the song of water. And I suppose in a way now he is, even when I wake up and wonder if he’s here at all or if everything but my battered ribs was a dream. I never hear him coming unless he chooses it; he likes that.

“Seunghyun.” I don’t jump, but my pliers clink against the wreck of my invention and my chest begins to ache as I take a startled breath. The same voice as I remember, cross and chilly; he always did talk that way unless he was frightened or excited, even when he was very small. He’s close behind me, quite close; not enough to see him if I turn – I can see no more than half a foot in front of me now and my eyes are burning from trying to fix what he broke – but enough to smell him, salt and wet wool. “It’s raining,” he informs me with the minute lift that speaks to his pleasure in ambushing me. “I ordered them to put on sail: we don’t want to lose the Fusan-Maru if a fog gets up.”

“Has Jo come to his senses?” I set my tools down, waiting to see if Jiyong will touch me; my skin prickles with expectation, but in vain. Oh, well. Back to Yankee Jo. My first mate was not keen on returning to the Neukdae: he thought he’d escaped me, running to the steamer. But since my interesting social experiment, Kang Daesung, absconded in the night we’ve been short on hands who can sail a real living vessel – so back poor Jo came. He hasn’t had to face me yet; I’ve been resting a lot since he returned to work, putting myself back together in this new magnanimous mode based on not maiming members of my crew. It’s thanks to this that we chose not to chase Dae and his religious companion; and besides, Jiyong and I have quite enough on our plates coping with each other.

“Of course,” says Jiyong from somewhere on my right. “I just looked at him.” Yes, that would fix Jo. I am well acquainted with the power of the gaze and the authority it brings, though now the only person who comes close enough for me to wield mine is my brother, and it doesn’t affect him one bit. “Don’t sit like that,” he continues coolly, so I lean back from my repairs and reap the reward of his cold night-watch fingers on the nape of my neck. “You’ll heal crooked.” For a moment he grips me: no pain, his hand is too delicate, though I dare say the other holds his cane. I experience a quick shiver, the happy awareness of his power, muzzled at present for my benefit. I think he feels it beneath his fingers because he stops touching me.

“I heal fast,” I say off-hand. If I didn’t I would not be here enjoying – or tolerating – this half life. I was pleased to use my last reserves of strength against my mutinous crew, of course, and once I knew Jiyong was aboard I was positively happy to survive; but I want to be on deck, I want to climb, to restore my ship to her best and know her again through the hum of her rigging. Did they rake the new foremast properly? Will it stand up in a storm? I won’t know until I can feel it in place. And I’m impatient of being coddled – insofar as one can use that word with Jiyong.

“And your eyes?”

“No better.”

“Stop reading,” he chides me; I can hear his annoyance. He had collected what books were left intact after his display of temper that night, even fixed my shelves, but he doesn’t care for them: not only does he think they’re worthless, he resents the attention they garner; the tiniest, tiniest part of my focus. Jiyong thinks it should all be spent on him, and I’m excessively glad to oblige – not that it’s changed his attitude much. But he touches me again now, another small shock of silence: a kiss to the side of my temple. It sets off my fading injuries, radiating from my face to a dull throb in my ribs, an ache that reflects the endless anticipation and apprehension of knowing we occupy the same space once more. At last.

“And the crew?” I can’t help but feel it, concern for my ship. I can tell from her movement that she’s being handled with competence, and every morning I hear the boats go out and the noisy business of packing skins at night; but subjectively at least these last days have been long, and I know it isn’t only worry for the Neukdae I feel but the hateful quiet of my helplessness. I have never said this aloud, but Jiyong knows it; I can hear it in his voice.

“Fine; since their mutual fear sank their nationalist tendencies, anyway. They’re working quite well together now. But tonight I made them uneasy.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He’s terrifying. I want to take him in my arms, my Viper; but he has moved out of reach. I hear a cupboard open and the clank of metal.

“I warned them that tomorrow you’ll resume command.” I laugh softly at that: it’s one of his rare compliments, allowing that I put the fear of god into them even more thoroughly than he does. Everything hurts still, but I’ve been arguing all week that I’m ready; if he’ll only be my eyes I am ready to do _anything_. I look forward to testing my authority over this new mixed crew: if anything can prove this isn’t a dream, one of my old fantasies, it’s a good bout of violence. I confess this to Jiyong and he audibly sneers at me. “If you want to have your ribs rebroken, brother, just come to me – no need to go out brawling.” I start to explain my philosophy: what living is to me, what it means; but Jiyong is no Kang Daesung and the moment I even attempt to reference a literary work he cuts me off. “Go to bed! I want to finish the desk.” I do as he says because I love to, and as I’m easing myself gingerly out of my shirt he adds: “The nonsense you talk!” He doesn’t find debate fascinating at all, he really _does_ think it’s nonsense, especially as his own forms of control have nothing to do with either brute strength or eloquence.

“My love, you are an ignorant creature.” Jiyong hates pet names more than insults; his icy silence makes me smile. Everything he does has that effect, as it did before our separation and now again. The seventeen years in between were mirthless, I think for him especially – his features are set in a habitual cast that’s somber at best. I clamber into my bunk and presently hear the rasp of a file and the clunk of wood: he’s doing the fine-work on the desk drawer, mending what he smashed. He’s handy with wood. One of the fishermen our father hired taught him to whittle, before the old man drowned off Dokdo.

“We saw a Russian ship today,” he tells me, scraping away. “On the horizon.”

“Where are we?” I haven’t been allowed at the charts since he took charge.

“Seventy miles off the Commander Islands.” I pause.

“Risky.” It’s one thing to get into scraps with Canadians and even the British sealers, but when it comes to territory Russia is another animal altogether. “A man-of-war?”

“No. A commercial vessel. The sealing’s good here, we got a huge haul today.”

“You’ve no fear at all, have you.”

“No fear,” says Jiyong briskly, “but plenty of caution. We’re heading East again now – and the Fusan-Maru’s guns are primed.”

“And if you get into a shooting-match with the Russians what’s the Neukdae supposed to do? Sit there and twiddle her thumbs?”

“Be quiet, Seunghyun,” he orders. He’s completely used to command, it sounds so natural. “Conserve your strength – you’ll need it.” For a while I lie there in my dim almost-blindness, the world coming to me through sound and the stirring of air; occasionally I raise my hands a few inches before my eyes to give me something to look at and remind myself I _can_ look. The idea of a complete loss of sight unnerves me like little else has. Perhaps I would have been more tolerant of it – or at least resigned to it – before, much as I was tolerant of the idea of my death; particularly the last time, after Kim Jongkook… But now I have seen my brother’s face again I can’t imagine losing it.

“Jiyong,” I say into the quiet; the sound of tools has stopped and there is only the natural movement of waves and wood. He doesn’t reply. He could have left for all I know, to check on Yankee Jo or prowl below decks as he likes to do: he says it keeps people on their toes. For a moment I wonder how my old hands are liking the new order. Ham is thriving, if dinner was any indication, and Myungsoo is somehow still alive, taking up space through sheer instinctual stubbornness. He might hang there the rest of the season; with Dae gone – surely in Alaska by now if he didn’t capsize on the way – the healing process has in truth been slow for all of us. But tomorrow! Tomorrow I shall bring this ship under my control in the only way she’s used to: by the throat. “Jiyong?” I try again. If he doesn’t reply I’ll have to get up and fetch a book; I doubt he’d be pleased with me when I’m bored.

“I’m here,” he says eventually; I think he’s near the door. “Are you not going to sleep?” I shake my head and for once get no ‘tsk’ of disapproval, only more quiet. I strain my hearing, holding my breath; then the bunk dips beneath his weight. I register my pulse speeding up, though my hopes don’t rise with it: Jiyong has never come into my bed, not since he was a child hiding from our father in the night. These days he says condescendingly that I’m too weak to be jostled – he enjoys calling me that – and the closest he’ll come is to perch beside my pillow or lay his head on the mattress at my elbow. But now the bunk sways and I have to brace as it takes his entire weight; I turn my head quickly and there he is, close enough to see his face. I raise myself eagerly on my elbows to shift over and make room, but he shakes his head and stretches out, pressed against my side through the blankets. A tingle of expectation akin to the approach of a storm ripples through me.

“You _do_ think I’m better, eh?”

“Well,” says Jiyong without a hint of playfulness, “let’s find out.” And he kisses me.

Jiyong has kissed me often since he began living aboard, and it’s as magnificent as it was the first time: no transitory pleasure, the touch of his lips lingers in my mind like a ghost for hours, until the next lucky occasion. It would be the most dreamlike feeling of all if he wasn’t so solid, his mouth cool and tasting of the sea and his scar right there before my eyes. It’s such a comfort to be able to see him, especially as he gives me no liberty to kiss him as I please: he will only allow it on his own terms, vanishing if I become too amorous. But now here he is, prone beside me, and he can’t escape so easily – as he’s surely aware. I take this as a hint, and the moment he begins to draw away I raise a hand to grip the back of his head and tug him towards me again. Jiyong growls a little – but he makes no attempt to stop me and I’m almost giddied as his mouth meets mine, my tongue slipping between his sharp teeth and his lips heated at last from the urgent friction as he returns the kiss. Ecstasy! I don’t say so lightly: I have yearned for this, dreamed of it, for more than half my life. My fingers tangle in his hair, and if I wasn’t so completely under his control he would find himself in a vulnerable position indeed.

“You’re so…” I begin between breaths, marveling at the immense power he wields with just this. Physical strength, mental vigor, those had always been my foundation stones. Jiyong needs neither; he doesn’t even have to touch me. I wonder if he knows the vast influence desire can hold. Perhaps he knew it at fourteen, when with my confession of love I did my utmost to put myself in his hands: when with a few cruel words and one swipe of a knife he transformed me completely.

“So _what_?” He pushes against my chest to pause me, knowing exactly where it hurts. His lovely eyes are narrowed, and I know very well that it’s precisely this kind of epithet he’s hoping to avoid: he does not want to be called beautiful, exquisite, charming – he simply won’t allow it. But he _is_ beautiful, that’s the trouble: the unique lines of his face, suspicion coloring his cheeks, the pale curve of his scar; and I cherish his beauty even more than I did when I was young, with my perfect sight and the assumption that my little brother would always be within my reach.

“…So _vicious_.”

“Am I,” he says with a rare half-smile, and darts at me, hand going around my throat as his lips push hard against mine. His grip doesn’t trouble me: I have been throttled in the past more often than is good for me, and Jiyong’s bare pretty hands, though formidable with a weapon, don’t pose much of a threat. I suppose he guesses it from my expression: a second later his teeth sink into my lip. I gasp and taste blood, smell copper, and he inhales sharply along with me. A love-nip like that doesn’t exactly deter me – rather the opposite – and I open my mouth to draw him on, wrapping my hand around the smooth column of his throat in turn. My hands are much larger and if I squeeze just a little I can feel the race of his pulse; I break away from his lips to see how it looks: I like it. Jiyong’s face tells me he is not the slightest bit afraid: when I tighten my grasp he only shows defiance. Then he takes my hand and draws it away from his neck, downwards, and with a stab of arousal I realize he’s naked; I can’t see that far but I can feel it, a soft path of skin shivering beneath my calluses like the line of foam on a wave’s crest.

“Vicious as a viper,” I confirm with half a chuckle, my hand gliding down his ribs, over his waist and hip, tracing his spare but sinuous lines; I have never touched him this intimately. Without warning Jiyong digs his fingernails into one of the healing wounds on my forearm and I snatch my hand back with a snarl.

“I don’t care for the term,” he warns me in the most distracting way, his lips a hum against my jugular. I reach out and draw him to me again; my fingers find the curve of his buttocks and sink instinctively into a grip on the invisible flesh. There is nothing in any of my books that could have prepared me for what it’s like – the sheer wonder of the physical. With a happy shudder I decide that every bit of pain might be worthwhile, if it’s balanced with pleasure like this. Through the sting from my injuries I smile at my good fortune.

“You must be something in that line,” I say, and his hand closes on my shoulder. “How else could you paralyze me so easily?” That gets me a sniff, though as compliments go it’s the sort that ought to please him. Inspired, I add: “My fearsome dragon…”

At that I feel the blankets thrown back and his warm thigh across my hip: he _did_ like it. Jiyong fumbles with my underclothes, oddly clumsy as though he were the blind man, and when he tugs them off – with some severe discomfort on my part as he pulls my injured limbs about – and presses his body alongside mine I understand that it’s because he is _excited_. This relieves me enormously: it wasn’t just me, then, who felt it, the primal physical yearning I’ve been in the habit of calling ‘beastly’. All these years I thought I had made a terrible mistake, quite aside from his preoccupation with strength and weakness: I believed I had offered something unforgivably distasteful to a boy whose inclinations lay another way entirely; but he’s hard and trembling in my embrace.

“ _Seunghyun_ ,” he mutters, and rolls on top of me, sitting astride my hips to pin me down without causing more harm to my ribs. The sensation is incredible; the thought of being restrained is as a rule unacceptable to me, but being imprisoned by his strong thighs and smooth arse is no kind of punishment. The one drawback is that I can no longer see him, and since I lost so much of my sight it has become the most intimate of senses. With a feeling of urgency – I don’t care to say anxiety – I reach out, my fingers finding his spread knees, his thighs. Jiyong makes a small encouraging noise, but once it dawns on him that I’m not aiming for his cock he gives me what I’m looking for and sets both hands in mine. He doesn’t say a word, and I’m glad. I draw his hands to my face and examine them with a feeling of reassurance. He touches my cheek, the stiches in my forehead, the bridge of my nose – kindly straightened out by Dae before he scarpered – and cups my jaw while I try to focus my eyes. His hands are as erotic as his hidden parts: pale inked fingers, small and lightly callused but almost unscarred – no brawling for him, only deadly weapons.

“I’m glad the bastards left me this much sight.” I would hate to have missed the chance to admire him. Then again, if I hadn’t been blinded I doubt Jiyong would have come to me at all: he wouldn’t have dreamed of admitting he loves me had I been the same man with the same power, the man he once cut himself to be rid of. I should be grateful to my miserable crew.

Gratified or impatient, he rocks against me and I’m suddenly aware of how hard I am: harder than I’ve been in years, despite the buckets of blood I must have lost that climactic day. I inhale shakily against his palm, then take his fingertips into my mouth. Another noise escapes his lips, a very small one; he’s so self-contained, and I can’t help but wonder what fucking has been like for him all this time. For me it was an animalistic thing, enjoyable but mentally isolating – my women seemed to be satisfied but god knows it could not have been anything profound for them either; compared to _this_ , those encounters were as water compared to blood. But perhaps Jiyong’s experiences have been better; perhaps he was fortunate and didn’t think of me at all.

“I…” he says very quietly, breathing out in a rush as I bite the end of his forefinger. “Seunghyun, I want-”

“What?”

“…I don’t know.” He sounds young; it’s as if we are both young and stupid again, as we were that night when I kissed him and he wrapped his arms around me and I thought my deepest wish had come true. This time he doesn’t fly into a fury, just touches my lower lip.

“Whatever you want,” I assure him. “That’s what I promised you – all those years ago.” Another pause: his hands are quivering minutely, I hope with desire.

“Then can you do without seeing me for a minute?” His voice has dropped, low and a little hoarse in a way that makes heat pool in my stomach and my cock twitch against his.

“You’re going somewhere?” I demand, and his reply sounds sure and smug: fully aware of the advantage he has.

“No. Just wait.” I reluctantly let go of his hands, anchoring myself with my own at the curve of his thighs. He touches my eyelids before smoothing his way down my chest, damp fingertips brushing my nipple to trace the path of my muscles; cold air shimmers in their wake. He pauses at the hard planes of my abdomen, such a contrast to his own yielding flesh. Without seeing his face I can’t tell if he is more stimulated or vexed at the difference. “Your body’s quite…what’s the word?” he says in an unreadable tone.

“Battered?”

“Yes.” He prods at a livid bruise on my belly. “But not that. A good word.”

“ _Aesthetic_?” He hums in affirmation; my turn to feel self-satisfied. If he’s envious he gives no hint of it.

“Aesthetically pleasing,” he agrees, pronouncing it carefully. I smile; I had never imagined one of my body’s many duties would be to gratify such a critical eye.

“It’s a useful machine.”

“Not just a machine.” And with that his weight is gone from my hips; then a hand curls around me and his mouth closes over the head of my cock.

“ _Jiyong_.” I shudder all over. He doesn’t moan or speak but I can hear every wet sound he’s making. There is nothing philosophical about _this_ experience, it conjures no formative memory from my youth; just incredible skill and spiraling need, I hope for both of us. For myself I can’t repress a groan, then another. I bury my hands in his hair, gently at first though he doesn’t need guiding, but soon gripping and twisting as I attempt to retain control of myself. It must hurt him but he still won’t give me the satisfaction of a reaction; he merely moves me faster and deeper, holding me down with one forearm and taking my erection into his throat. I wish I could see his face! Before I can finish in his mouth I tug on his hair hard enough to halt him. “Please. Come here, please.” The words sound odd in my deep voice, as does the tone: I’ve not begged any person since I was seventeen. Still, he obliges me, and fast, rising to hover over me and kiss my mouth. _Now_ he lets out a small sound, hunger and pride that he’s undone me this way; I keep my eyes open to look at him, the flutter of his lashes, the inky spread of his pupils. “Jiyong,” I say, my hands running the length of his spine to caress him between the legs, “do you want to?” His nostrils flare with excitement and I feel his thighs quiver; his cock is hot and heavy in my hand. “Please – I’ll let you.”

“…You _will_?” he blurts out, looking thrown. And then, with the predatory gleam of a frigatebird, he whispers: “I want to.” The thought of him taking me – and I was close to the edge after his mouth’s attentions already – makes me want to grab him to me and clasp him tight, so tight we might be one monstrous sexual creature. “But wait,” he adds, visibly struggling to retain that chill, or perhaps just some remnant of good sense. “Have you…done it this way before?”

“No. Of course not.” The idea of allowing myself to roll over for another man is laughable; any hint of submission was antithetical to my way of being. But I will do it for Jiyong in a heartbeat. My attitude gets me a hint of that curled lip – he thinks I’m a caveman who just happens to be able to read – then he shakes his head.

“Later, then; when I’m not in danger of cracking your ribs.” He kisses me deeply and vanishes; I hear a low moan and his thighs tighten around my hips.

“What, then?” I manage, intrigued and titillated by that sound.

“You can have _me_.”

“…So _you’ve_ done this before,” I surmise when I’ve recovered from the lustful pang conjured by those words. I feel as territorial as a Russian: jealousy for him, perhaps a little pique at having to acknowledge his greater breadth of experience. Unworthy thoughts.

“Oh, yes,” says Jiyong coolly. “From the first time I went to sea – though in those days not by my choice.” A chill sweeps through me, not the usual heated delight at the prospect of violence but a cold rage; as cold as Jiyong himself. My instinct, the old, childish instinct, is to comfort him: offers of protection, declarations of revenge. In the nick of time I remember how he feels about _that_ , and restrain myself enough to merely growl:

“I hope you _paid them back_.”

“Yes,” Jiyong repeats blandly.

“I hope you killed them all.” I’m shaking beneath him, I know he can feel it – my crew is god-damned fortunate he’s here and pinning me down: I want to hurt someone. Then Jiyong looms towards me, elbows planted either side of my head to trap me, and in a voice with a knife’s edge he tells me:

“Brother, I broke or buried every one of them. Eventually. And later I learned that letting a man take me doesn’t have to leave me powerless: it can be a pretty effective form of control, as you shall see!” I let out a long sigh, relief and unspeakable pride in him. He smiles at me, that beautiful smile, rare and bright and hard as diamonds, and my mind is suddenly too small for my overflow of love. “So don’t waste your time making me angry.” He’d read the sympathy and dismissed it. Briefly I wonder if he missed me in those days, if he wished me with him when he most needed to be kept safe…if he ever once regretted not taking me up on my offer. But I’ll never ask him and it doesn’t matter now: he is _here_ and still perfectly himself. I reach up and touch his face. “Just do as I say, exactly as I say,” Jiyong commands, echoing my furious thoughts: “I’ll keep you safe.”

I nod, and my Viper breathes into me. One hand disappears, taking mine with it; a minute later my fingers are delving between his legs and inside him, a tight, resilient ring of muscle. He truly is strong all over. I want to feel my way, explore him at my leisure but he won’t let me: his hand directs my first two fingers deeper, angles them, and I see his face change in a way that makes me want to thank a god I don’t believe in for allowing me what remains of my sight. His sharp features recede and the voluptuous lines of his cheek and lips soften, his expression turning hazy and lost – a wonderful moan and I nudge my digits against that place again; I never knew he could look like this. He meets my eyes and reads my astonishment. Then the sweet expression is gone and he moves silently away from me, off the bed, and vanishes. I growl in frustration: even alone like this he loathes his own vulnerability. He’s worse than me.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly as I prepare to shift my healing carcass and catch him. “There’s something I need.” I prick up my ears but he’s too light to hear until the cupboard sounds. When he climbs back on top of me the warmth in the midst of this chilly sea is pure bodily delight. He has hold of my fingers again and I blink as they meet something liquid and slippery. “Oil from the galley,” Jiyong informs me from somewhere above me. So, he has been preparing for this moment – looking forward to it. “I’ve not done this for some time and I have to make sure it’s smooth sailing – for your benefit!” he adds in case I might have thought _he_ needs careful handling. I unsuccessfully hide a smile, achieving it as he strokes my cock with one slick hand, bringing me back to a full stiff ache while I work him open under his direction, my free hand caressing him everywhere I can reach. Once I’m fully mobile I am going to spend hours learning his body’s reactions, what he feels like when I’m pressing him down into the bed or when he’s inside me; he’ll just have to put up with it! I want him on his back so I can see his face at every moment, I want his fingernails in my sides and his teeth in my shoulder…I want him every way he’ll have me.

“Now…?” I almost beg – his touch and the mental images are too effective, and I want him to have his satisfaction at leisure.

“Yes, brother. Hold tight – don’t move. Leave this to me.” I take an eager grip on his hips, my fingers slipping and sinking in his resilient flesh; my thumbs are on his pelvic bones, such a little thing he is but they’re so solid. I feel Jiyong lift himself, handling me with confidence; I could pick him up easily as he could a kitten, but I don’t – this time he can have it all his own way. Then comes a tighter grasp on my cock, an almost-painful squeeze and heat that slowly envelops me, and the gray blur before my eyes explodes with color as my senses interpret this pleasure as best they can. Jiyong gasps, once, and begins to move.

“… _Oh_ ,” I say in a helpless rumble as he eases down on me; my head falls back, my long hair sticky against my forehead with the effort of keeping still. What man could manage it with such a genius riding him? Jiyong has one palm pressed against my stomach, the other covering my right hand to reassure me. I can feel his stare on my face though I can’t see it as he gradually builds the intensity of his movements; he’s observing me, in total control despite the fact that I have him in my grip and could do whatever I chose to him at this moment: injured or not, I could crush him. But right now I am incapable of doing anything but worship him. He shifts his weight to a new angle and I catch the tail end of a groan. “I want to hear you,” I implore.

“Ah…” He’s breathless, losing his cool – a stunning possibility. I have to hear it for myself, that he feels a fraction of what I do!

“It’s hard enough…to be still as it is,” I warn him. My body wants to get nearer, to sit up and move with him, to tug him against me and make us as close as I had once dreamed we’d be. My ribs are paining me as I fight to keep still and as he buries me deeper. “ _Jiyong_ ,” I burst out. My hands slide to his waist and dig in convulsively. He curses through his low cry and drops down: but like a predator, not prey, swooping to crouch over me; I can feel the heat radiating from his body, an inch above my torso. I can’t tell if he’s still treating me as if I am breakable or if this is meant to be a threat – and I don’t care, because I can see his face again and it’s a work of art. “Beaut-” I begin instinctively, and he is: his black eyes glowing, skin kindled with passion and pleasure at what he’s making my body do for him; and at my helplessness.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he hisses, and his mouth crashes into mine. Oh, he feels it: he loves me, he loves this, and he knows precisely how incandescent he is. He just won’t let me say it; all right. I lay one heavy hand in the small of his back, the other securing him by the hair to keep him with me, and as we screw like snakes with the motion of the waves I kiss him.

“I love you,” I tell him against his ear, his neck, my tongue scraping the textured line of his scar before I return to gaze at him raptly. Jiyong lets out a groan, eyes falling closed, and kisses me again so I can’t look.

“And what else?” he demands, biting at my lip and moving faster, faster, one hand slipping down between our bodies. My own joins it and he grits his teeth at the sensation.

“…And I’m yours.”

“You _are_. Ahh, Seunghyun, that’s-” He doesn’t finish because in that instant I reach my climax, clutching him to me, the pain in my bruised body melding with the joy of having him: whatever he might say, he is _mine_ , too. I keep moving for him, truly blind, and when I come back to myself Jiyong is gazing at me raptly, his words forgotten as if my losing myself is the most miraculous thing he has ever seen. I laugh in amazement and slide my thumb up his damp throat, over his chin and between his lips, and as he finishes under our joined hands he draws blood with his sharp white fangs. I barely notice: the sound he makes is so abandoned that it’s thoroughly touching. He doesn’t try to move away; he is falling apart and at last he lets me glimpse it, while I stroke his hair and kiss his face and tell him with orgasmic honesty how perfect he is, how overwhelming and powerful and petrifying. You would think they’re the most erotic verses ever penned, the way he shines.

My various aches come back to me: this might just have set my resumption of command back by another day. Gently I ease Jiyong down to lie beside me, and now I do indulge myself, taking him in my arms and pressing my lips to the top of his head, the smell of sex and the ocean cocooning us. I have everything I ever wanted: my brother, my lover, my ship; and all I had to do to attain them was almost die. And in spite of the bloody promises we made to each other upon our reconciliation I find myself reevaluating my notions on the worth of a human life: all of a sudden my own seems quite valuable, and his infinitely so.

“Stop philosophizing,” says Jiyong in a worn-out grumble, his arms sliding languidly about my waist. I huff in surprise. “I can always tell,” he informs me. “You get a very stupid look.”

“Better a stupid look than to _be_ stupid.”

“Shut up. Here: you’re always complaining you can’t see me. Look as much as you please.” It does please me, so I cup his face in both hands: tiny, fine-boned, eminently breakable, and yet impossible to assail.

“Say, Jiyongie, honey, tell me something: if I hadn’t lost my sight would you still be here with me?” Jiyong’s own eyes narrow, catlike and displeased at my post-coital tenderness. I’m not certain why I asked – I know already what the answer will be.

“That depends,” Jiyong tells me eventually. “I’d have had to find some other way to beat you first.” He sounds quite confident of doing so, my uneducated, secretive, brilliant brother.

“I think you could.” I am unable to hide my smile. He covers my mouth with his hand, though quite gently, and shuffles closer.

“I think I could too.”

“…I’m a little…well, _frightened_ ,” I confess after a long moment of mutual admiration, and it’s easy to admit such a thing to him – unconscionable were it any other man. Jiyong smirks but doesn’t look surprised.

“I’m a frightening person.”

“You _are_.” He kisses me, so lightly it’s a mere movement of air; this is his preferred kind of compliment, I remind myself.

“I mean,” I plough on, “I mean…of my sight going completely. I want to be able to see you, your _face_ …” Saying so, I touch it: perfection. “I’ve never _been_ scared before; it feels strange.” He gives me a look that’s less sympathy than pity, and I ought to hate it – but from him I can’t.

“What does my face have to do with anything?” he asks blithely, though with a gleam that’s almost challenging me to say something stupid: that he’s enough to be a great artist’s muse, or one of the many other truths I feel like telling him now I have him at my side again. Instead I sigh. “I don’t care if you go blind,” Jiyong continues, as cold and callous as his arms are warm and soft. “All the better for me – and all the more mine you’ll be.”

“You promise you’ll command me?” That diamond smile again as his lips press against my eyebrow.

“Yes, brother, I’ll direct your every step, your every breath: you’re mine, and I’ll keep you safe. Well, as safe as you care to be.”

I pipe down at last, satisfied, and simply gaze at him: best to do it plenty now, in case someday I can’t. He explores my features as hungrily as I do his. He is a miracle; and _mine_. I stare until my eyes are burning and Jiyong falls asleep. The Neukdae sails on, lulling me, telling me all’s right with the world. For the first time in my life I think it might be, and the sensation is so novel it keeps me awake a long time. But that’s all right: I have a sight I’ll never tire of.

We’re woken by an urgent call; the both of us snap into awareness in the way only sailors and soldiers do, and although I can’t see my body knows it’s morning.

“Captain!” yells our new second mate down the companionway; his Korean isn’t very good but he is frightened enough of us to improve fast. “Fusan-Maru’s signaling!” Jiyong touches his lips to mine and hops out of bed with a lithe freedom of movement I envy very much just now. I lose sight of him but I can hear him dressing quickly; then a bundle of clothes hits my chest.

“Well?” he demands, and his pale face homes back into view. “Are you captain or not?” I set a hand to my ribs, sigh, but decide they’ll do: I’ve done much more with much worse. I smile.

“I certainly am.”

“I’ll tell them you’re coming,” says Jiyong in a sadistic tone: he enjoys frightening the men. He gives me his hand and lets me kiss it from my supplicant position, then darts away; I hear the sound of his cane hitting the deck. I get dressed, feeling physically lumpish but spiritually delighted and full of anticipation: the first day of my new life as joint captain. Jiyong has ordered the crew not to rearrange anything below or above decks, so even with my range of vision cut to a few inches I make my way up as easily as if I was coming on deck on a stormy night. The Neukdae is pitching but not rolling very much: a medium sea and a fine breeze coming over our port side. A certain brightness tells me the sun is shining. I can’t see the hands but I can feel their stares; it makes me smile, because yes – their apprehension is still there, a kind of charge against my skin. If anything the smile heightens their reaction.

“Well?” I say casually, and hear Jiyong call me over the distant chug of the Fusan-Maru’s engines at our stern; he’s by the wheel from the sound of it so I turn and stride aft, more slowly than I would have before but still with a reasonable amount of confidence. I know the direction and distance from memory; a looming sensation alerts me to the presence of a sailor in my path, and he steps aside quickly before I get close enough to see him. Then a small hand is touching my forearm and I feel the spokes of the wheel under my palm.

“Ship sighted.” Jiyong’s hand squeezes me, signaling his cool brand of exhilaration: this is no ordinary sighting.

“What is she?” I ask. Another sealer would hardly make him this excited.

“A Russian,” he states flatly. “A steamer, looks like the Fusan-Maru but bigger; three miles astern and bearing up. Gun ports.”

“A warship,” I conclude, and I know why she is here: my brother’s risk-taking. It appears our fine haul yesterday might come at a higher price than it will ever fetch at market. Perhaps we haven’t run as far East as we should, or perhaps the man-of-war has been following us. Either way, this is his fault. I feel my lips draw back to bare my teeth, and realize it’s a grin: abruptly I am soaked in it, the old animal delight at the promise of experiencing life’s full intensity, and those fine beneficent thoughts on the value of my own skin fall away. “Thank you for this, brother,” I state in an irritated tone, just to pique him; but I mean it. Beside me he makes a cool, amused noise before calling for the Neukdae to signal the Fusan-Maru in return: bear up alongside – council of war.

“You’re welcome. Now. Let’s plan.”

I lay my hand on his shoulder, enjoying the contact and the solidity of him: small and unwavering, as great a weapon as I am. The thought of outwitting or battling a strong opponent with him stirs me extremely, and though I bark the orders that will get me our exact position and send the Neukdae away on her best point of sail, I do it with a smile. I know that beside me Jiyong must look cold and cross as ever; but I also know he feels the same. I stand on my deck, the world under my control again, and gauge the wind and water and our power relative to our enemy. The prospect of what’s coming buoys me to the height of happiness, because here we are, viper and wolf, and whether we face the great struggle of life or the immediacy of death we will for the first time in forever face it the same way: together.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there you have it! Seunghyun is quite a sap when it comes to Jiyong XD  
> I hope you enjoyed it from a different character perspective. Let me know if you did!
> 
> And with that...I'm all out of fic for now. It's going to be pretty weird not posting a new piece every week, and I'll miss interacting with you all on here!  
> In the meantime I've begun to draft the second sequel to my 1920s Bombshell series, which as usual is going to be stupidly long. That'll take months and months to write! I might come up with a oneshot every now and then in between, if anyone has any prompts or suggestions ^^
> 
> And of course I'll still post GTOP fanart every week on my Instagram and Tumblr!  
> Thanks so much for reading, hope to catch up with you soon :)


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